


Shut up... and Dance with Me

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Foreplay in a nightclub, Inspired by Music, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Nightlife, irrelevant case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening out with John & Sherlock after working on an irrelevant case turns into throbbing, loud music and good fun.  A round of good feels on the house, even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut up... and Dance with Me

No matter how easy the case had been, John was reveling in the weekend away. London was a great city, and he wouldn't trade it for anything, particularly his long-term relationship with his nutcase of an insatiable flatmate - who, if he wasn't driving him physically crazy by tormenting him in a steadily fulfilling sexual way, was driving him bat-shit crazy by his antics, impulsivity, and generally unpredictable behavior. But it was a treat to get away for even the weekend.

They'd taken the train a few hours out of town at the request of Greg Lestrade, who may have misrepresented the "mystery" of the "crime". And now, with Sherlock having belittled the entire staff of the local law agency for their idiocy, stomped his feet and had a mini temper tantrum over the uninspiring ease at which he'd figured everything out, they'd taken a cab back to their hotel. Sherlock was really working himself into a rather impressive sulk, complaining about anything within his range of vision, including John, his reading material, and his collection of jumpers, all back at Baker Street, but in good company with the cab service, Lestrade, his brother (who had no bearing on anything about this weekend), and the local food, not that Sherlock had eaten much anyway. As the cab sped away after dropping them off at the kerb, with John paying the fare, the neon glow and buzz of the light just adjacent to the hotel caught his eye. A nightclub was beckoning.

"Come on," he said, linking an arm into Sherlock's rigid stature, even his body language disagreeable and unflexible. He steered the resistant companion the short jaunt toward the club. It was late, there were cars abundant, a steady stream of people of all ages in and out of the door. A smoker's pole, then, seemed to be a destination quite a distance from the door. John found that a plus, that there would be a non-smoking interior. The throbbing pulsating music, heavy on the bass, could be heard in ebbs and flows with the opening and closing of the door.

"Absolutely not. Not going." He pulled his arm out of John's, stopped, planting his feet like an anchor of a bloody tall sailing ship.

John pressed. He snapped, "I have the room key. And you've owed me since last week when some of your wayward skin culture media got into my favorite tea mug." He took Sherlock's arm again. "Come on, we won't stay long." His gaze warmed as he raised an eyebrow, letting his eyes wander around Sherlock's face, lower.

The glow from the streetlights caught the dark curls, a bit shorter than they used to be but still fussed over and admired, by both of them, John knew, and he could have reached out to touch if he'd wanted. High cheekbones, solid and steady, bracketed firm aristocratic, perfect nose, beautifully piercing steely eyes that ranged from gray to blue depending on mood and clothing. And those eyes darkened with desire as he saw John watching, admiring. It was a warm night, no jackets, just tailored, casual button front shirt tucked into expensive charcoal-coloured trousers. Finished off with dark belt, shoes, and accented by the lithe-ness of the body within, firm, taut, muscled, attractive. John would have said that he liked to look, but the truth was, he liked to _touch_ too. Often. Demanding.

John himself typically chose attire geared for comfort, especially when he might be leaping from fire escapes or chasing Sherlock, or criminal, or more likely both, through city streets. Tonight was no exception. Jeans, trainers, light blue henley.

"I'll make it up to you. I won't tell you no tonight, whatever you want." He watched for the telltale signs of the inward battle of the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes. His brain was still aggravated, irritated, and spoiling for a fight, but his body was saying yes, pupils dark, skin just barely pinked. John knew if he ran a hand from shoulder to hip he would find puckered nipple and firm erection.

His body won the debate, and he huffed one last time, and followed John toward the club. "Not staying long. And I'm plotting what we are going to do later. It might involve getting a fantastic blow job. And maybe giving one, then. And company in the shower. And perhaps something battery operated." He'd poked through his suitcase, then, John realized. Sherlock's lips pursed while John laughed, seeing the amusement and the childlike nature looking to push a few of John's buttons. John needed no encouragement. He may not agree with Sherlock's self-induced abstinence during a case, but he tolerated it, knowing that the two of them would both be seeing fireworks later tonight.

"Then I'll just start off with the first of many 'yes's'. Sound good?" John held the door while Sherlock stepped through."Yes, to all of it," he sizzled, his breath and voice low, for Sherlock's ear as he passed. He was rewarded with a mischievous smile.

The bar was full but not too crowded to find two bar stools, and they ordered a drink each. John tipped his glass of scotch against Sherlock's tangueray and tonic and a heated glance passed between them. "Bottom's up," Sherlock said, quietly, his eyebrow raising as John caught his meaning. Sherlock's look was clearly conveying that he'd passed from case-related irritation to _interested_. A live band was over in the corner, crafting a hit from the top forty list, and quite a few were on the dance floor, definitely having a good time.

The barmaid clearly knew some of the regulars, and chatted with most of the patrons sitting there. Sherlock's astute gaze took in the room, and John watched his eyes settle on a gentleman by himself, quiet, at the corner.

"Okay," he said. "Have at it, then. Impress me."

"Widower, see the wedding ring line?" Sherlock said quickly, "On his way to becoming an alcoholic. At least two kids. Big savings account until he drinks it, check out the brand of his shoes? Clothing is not recent..." He had a few more deductions, and John heard the words but was watching Sherlock's mouth as it moved more than listening. The electricity of the sexual tension between them drew him, kept drawing him, threatened to spark. Of seemingly it's own accord, John's knee angled into Sherlock's, heat perceived between layers of fabric. Sherlock was still speaking, "... and I'm having an affair with a retired police commissioner from Dubai."

"What?"

Sherlock was smirking at him. "You zoned out again." He sipped, put his drink down. "Your attention span is apparently short tonight."

"I'll thank you to leave my height out of conversation please." Their eyes met, smiling warmly, feeling both connection and anticipation. "And definitely not short in other aspects."

"Indeed." Sherlock glanced toward John's lap with a quick raise of his brow and a wink.

Another song started, then, and the drums pounded out a bass beat that was joined by the bass guitar, the soundwaves penetrating rib cage, hammering away, and rattling central chest structures. "Dance with me?" Sherlock took John's drink from his hand.

"No th--" and then John remembered his promise. There were quite a lot of people on the dance floor, but not quite enough for him to be still a bit self-conscious, particularly when Sherlock had such a commanding, rhythmic presence. They didn't dance a lot, weddings mostly, or a rare evening out when either or both had a bit to drink. Sherlock was waiting, impatiently tapping a foot, his eyes sparkling. When he licked his lips, however, catching and holding a flirtatious expression, John picked up his drink again, downed it. "Liquid courage."

John followed him, and was grateful that others also were joining them on the dance floor. For all his musical prowess, Sherlock could at least recognize and choose a song worthy of their efforts. Well, John's efforts and Sherlock's natural talent.

The music was louder out on the dance floor, obviously the speakers angled just so to give maximum vibration. John was already feeling the slightest buzz from the scotch, and the group of people on the floor shifted for the crowd as well as to allow those with a bit more finesse ample space. It was no surprise when a few others joined them, and the dancing interaction became communal, Sherlock and John responding to each other - Sherlock with his heated gaze and fluid sensual moves had drastically lowered John's typical inhibitions. Well, that and the scotch, John realized, but it was also of great comfort they were strangers in the mist here. No one was looking for them, they would likely run into no acquaintances here. So if either wanted to really let loose on the dance floor, all of it was permissible. One song morphed into another, also particularly dance-able. There was chatter among those there, some holding drinks and moving more carefully, others, Sherlock included, who could gyrate and shake anything he wanted and look stunning while doing so. He was certainly, John observed, being noticed by those around - the occasional few dance steps with strangers, leaning in to talk or laugh, or comment on the music or the graceful moves. But he only had intense eyes set on John.

Another song replaced that one, the crowd becoming just slightly more dense. John found himself lost in the beat, the driving bass, the steady and rhythmic pound of the drum that reverberated through the room, his skin. He was also lost in the pale blue eyes that had heated him from the core outward, the sexual energy, the magnetism of desire that had wound the two men together and held them. A bump here, a bit of a grind, hips pressed against thigh just long enough to feel turgid erectile tissue beneath the zipper, a steady hold of a hand, a moment that stilled time when Sherlock reached along the side of John's face, bringing their heads together in order to point out something of interest in the technicality of the music. An excuse, of course, but well played. As if John had much in his mind beyond finishing out this night and shagging his partner senseless. He could tell Sherlock was in a similar state, aroused, focused, using any excuse to touch, hold, communicating want and need through the contact of long fingers anywhere he chose to put them.

The lead singer, at the end, counted off another song, noted they were going to slow it down a bit. Their sound tech cut the lights, leaving only soft side-lighting. The room was still humming along with the anticipation on the dance floor.

Ah, John thought. Couples, then. Time for another drink or, if Sherlock wanted, to leave. He had already taken a step that direction when he felt a warm hand on his arm, pulling. "What's this, then?"

The music swelled, a ballad, soulful guitar and strong tenor voice mixing and blending with light snare drum and synth. Sherlock tugged, and John complied, resisting the urge to look around for awkward stares or disapproving faces. Sherlock knew, could tell immediately, and leaned close. "John, let them all watch. _Who bloody cares_." It was not a question. He led, then, arms tightening, holding securely, a slightly swaying and yet shortened step out of necessity. John could have hummed as they melted together. "You promised me an evening of 'yes'," came the quiet voice near his ear, "now _shut up and dance with me_."

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my. I want to go dancing.
> 
> And we all needed that song stuck in our heads!!
> 
> _Shut up and Dance (Walk the Moon)_  
>     
>  _Oh don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me_  
>  _I said you're holding back, he said, shut up and dance with me. >_
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to someone who bookmarked the work with a comment wanting to know what they're dancing to at the end. It can be whatever you would like it to be. In my mind, it _might_ be Harvest Moon, by Neil Young. 
> 
> _Come a little bit closer, hear what I have to say..._  
> 
> _When we were strangers, I watched you from afar,_  
>  _When we were lovers, I loved you with all my heart._  
> 
> _Because I'm still in love with you, I want to see you dance again,_  
>  _Because I'm still in love with you, on this harvest moon._
> 
>  
> 
> And of course, it can be whatever inspires you. I choke up listening to Louis Armstrong "What a Wonderful World", too. It depends on the evening. Enjoy!


End file.
